The Champion (39 page)
Monday shook her head. ‘Do you expect me to be after what you have told me? I have to go, I have been here too long already. Come, sweetheart.’ She took Florian in her arms.
‘Well then, God be with you, child,’ Edmund said gravely, and rose to see her on her way.
‘And with you.’ On his threshold she hesitated, a small crease between her brows. ‘You will not tell anyone …’
He made the sign of the cross on his breast. ‘I swear,’ he said solemnly. ‘And who knows, perhaps you have chosen the right road.’
Impulsively she kissed his cheek, and felt beneath her lips the puckered scar that ran up to his hairline and had deprived him of an eye. ‘I won’t forget,’ she said.
Edmund nodded. ‘Aye, keep the faith.’ He waggled his moustache comically at Florian. ‘He’s a fine lad; may he become a fine man.’
*
In the aftermath of a vigorous bout of lovemaking, Aline lay beside her husband. One slender white thigh twined over and between his, and her fingers tugged gently at his springy mat of chest hair. He was hers, and hers alone. No other woman was going to sink her claws into him, and he was certainly not going to sink any part of his anatomy into another woman.
Her fear at seeing Hamon and Monday together in the hall at dawn had dissipated, courtesy of the white-hot violence of the past half-hour, but the sight had left its mark on her nevertheless. Hamon had a penchant for new experiences, and Monday was obviously attracted to him, witness the way she had been blushing.
‘I fear we have missed mass,’ she said lazily.
‘I doubt you would fear anything,’ Hamon retorted with a playful tug on her hair.
Aline tasted the salt of sweat on his body with the tip of her tongue and knew he was wrong. Above all things, she feared losing him, but she was not about to say so. Hamon groaned softly with pleasure at her touch, but at the same time began to ease out from beneath her.
‘We might have missed mass, but the rest of the day awaits,’ he said.
‘You were not so keen to leave a moment ago,’ Aline said, and sat up, tossing her hair in a blatantly sexual gesture. She knew that even to a man recently satisfied, she looked desirable.
Hamon chuckled. ‘And I will not be so keen again unless you stop bedevilling me and put some clothes on.’
Teasing had always spiced their volatile relationship. Aline sniffed. ‘A bedmate and brood mare, that is all you want me for,’ she accused.
‘Oh no, that’s not true!’ he exclaimed, as if thoroughly hurt. ‘What about all your lovely lands and their rich revenues!’
Aline knelt up on the bed, seized a pillow, and hurled it at him.
Their play was interrupted by a tentative knock on the door. Husband and wife stared at each other in surprise, for no servant would normally dare to intrude upon these moments of intimacy. A frown across his brows, Hamon secured a loincloth about his hips, and as Aline threw on her chemise, he crossed to the door and opened it a crack upon his wife’s maid, Eda, and behind her his squire, Pepin.
‘What is so important that it can’t wait?’ Hamon demanded irritably. ‘Don’t tell me someone’s got themselves killed already?’
‘No, my lord.’ Pepin’s voice, but recently broken, emerged as a high-pitched squeak.
‘What then?’
‘Lord John, the Count of Mortain, has just arrived with his household guard and a troop of soldiers.’
‘What?’ Hamon gaped at his squire in dismay. Not that he had anything against Count John. Indeed, they had many things in common, but Hamon hated to have his insouciance ruffled.
‘The steward and seneschal are out in the bailey greeting him now. I came straight away to fetch you, sir.’
Hamon swore through clenched teeth and threw the door wide. ‘Come, help me dress. Eda, to your mistress.’ He jerked his thumb at the maid, then turned to Aline. ‘Did you hear? Count John.’
‘Yes, I heard. Eda, my court gown. What does he want, do you think?’
Hamon shrugged inside the tunic he was pulling on. ‘Hospitality, soldiers … money, it would not surprise me. What does it matter? He is here for God knows how long, and he has to be provided for. That’ll do.’ He brushed Pepin’s ministrations aside, and still fastening his belt, hastened out of the room and down to the great hall.
Monday returned to a keep in the throes of utter chaos, caused by the arrival of Coeur de Lion’s brother. The outer bailey was a heaving mass of horses and soldiers. Florian clung tightly to her neck, his eyes enormous as she wove a precarious path through the throng.
Someone pinched her buttocks and guffawed an insult disguised as a compliment. She glared round, and a soldier grinned insolently back at her, his hand looped around his mount’s neck. The pungent smell of horses and unwashed bodies was so thick that she covered her face with the end of her wimple. Suddenly, facing Aline did not seem such a daunting prospect, and she quickened her pace towards the safety of the hall.
This too was teeming with men, but of a higher rank than those outside. Their garments were of finer fabrics in richer hues, and their equipment was of a better quality. Some of them looked vaguely familiar – faces from a life she had left behind. As she made her way towards the tower stairs, she recognised Lupescar and Algais, mercenaries in the employ of John Plantagenet, Count of Mortain.
The moment Monday entered the bower, she was pounced upon by Aline, who dragged her into the antechamber. Maids were bustling to and fro with armfuls of linen, cushions, fresh candles and wall hangings. Two hefty men-at-arms were in the act of depositing a huge travelling chest against one wall. Three lean hunting dogs trotted around the room, investigating all and sundry. One of them snuffled at the rushes in the corner near the door, then cocked its leg up on the plasterwork. Monday’s eyes bulged. Aline hated dogs. She only tolerated them in the hall for Hamon’s sake, and before today, nothing on four paws had ever been allowed within a mile of her personal chamber.
‘Jesu, I thought you had gone for the entire day!’ Aline snapped. ‘Come and help me now.’ She pointed to a nursemaid playing a clapping game with a small child. ‘Leave Florian with Giles. Eloise will look after him.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ Monday deposited her son on the floor beside Aline’s little boy, and turned in time to receive a tunic of the most magnificent patterned silk she had ever laid eyes upon. It was a dark plum red, shiny and slippery, with a matt design of peacocks woven through it. All the hems were lavishly patterned with gold braid, and the entire garment was peppered with tiny gold beads.
‘Mend this – invisibly if you want to curry royal favour. It’s torn beneath the arm where he pulled it over his head.’
Suspecting that the ‘he’ involved was the Count of Mortain was not the same as following Aline into the main chamber and discovering him seated in a huge barrel bathtub. Steam rose from the surface in delicate fronds, and the count, his eyes closed, was luxuriating in the hot, herb-infused water that lapped around his throat.
Monday had seen the Count of Mortain once or twice from a distance in her days on the tourney route, enough to receive the general impression of a dark-avised man, small of stature when measured against knights such as Hervi and Lupescar, but stocky and vigorous withal. The man in the tub bore her memory out and surprised her too. No one had ever spoken of Mortain as being handsome. All such accolades were reserved for his golden lion of a brother, and yet John’s features were powerfully attractive. His face was not as long as Richard’s, and the bones less close to the surface of the skin. The cheekbones were high, the nose short and endearingly blunt, and the mouth had a sensual curve in repose.
‘Don’t stand there goggling.’ Aline nudged her sharply. ‘Get busy with your needle.’
Monday fetched her sewing basket and retired to a corner of the room. She selected her finest silver needle and found a length of silk thread the exact same shade as the torn tunic. Then, with the utmost care and delicacy, she set about mending the garment. Now and then, to rest her eyes, she would raise her head and glance at him. His lids were still closed, and he seemed oblivious of the bustle surrounding him. She supposed that he must be accustomed to a constant stream of servants and petitioners and had learned to ignore them.
She had nearly finished her mending and was well pleased with the result, for the tear was almost invisible, when one of John’s hounds trotted over to investigate her, thrusting its cold, moist muzzle into her lap. Monday was taken completely by surprise and her needle slipped stabbing deep into her forefinger. She let out a scream of shock and pain. The dog sank back on its haunches and growled at her, lips curling to reveal a dangerous array of sharp white teeth.
‘Nero, here!’
The dog responded immediately to the peremptory baritone from the tub, and wagging its tail and whining, trotted over to the count.
He was sitting up now, fully awake and aware. ‘Lie down,’ he commanded, pointing a forceful forefinger. The dog dropped to all fours and watched him with anxious eyes, its plumed tail beating on the floor rushes.
‘Damned mongrel,’ John said, but with a note of lazy affection in his tone. ‘Should have let the kennel-keeper drown you at birth.’ He glanced across the room to Monday.
She eased the needle from her forefinger and sucked at the bright bead of blood that welled out, her own thoughts echoing John’s words, but with considerably more venom.
‘You are hurt?’ he asked.
Monday shook her head. ‘Not really. My only concern is that I do not bleed over your fine gown, my lord.’
‘Well, that’s very saintly if it is indeed your only concern,’ he said silkily.
Monday blushed. ‘It would be a pity to ruin such a fine tunic, especially since I have made the effort to mend it,’ she said.
John was amused. ‘It is not fear of me, then?’
She raised her head and looked at him. His eyes, now that they were open, reminded her with a pang of Alexander. They had the same thick, dark lashes, the same melting quality, although John’s seemed rather to quench the light than to hold it.
‘No, my lord, I do not fear you,’ she replied. It was the truth. John had a vile reputation among other men. She had heard how he had taken the town of Evreux by trickery, and ordered the beheading of the French garrison. The soldiers’ heads had been rammed on to spears and poles to be paraded on the city ramparts. Time and again she had heard men say that it took a very long spoon to sup with the Count of Mortain. But that was men. Women had nothing to fear from John, unless it be the danger of his devastating charm.
‘Then my notoriety must be slipping. I thought all mothers threatened their naughty children with tales of what I would do to them.’
‘My mother never threatened me.’
‘Because you were never naughty?’ One eyebrow curved, and the sensual lips parted in an irresistible smile that was both boyish and virile at one and the same time.
‘Because there were fates far worse.’ Her finger had ceased to bleed and Monday set the last few stitches into the red silk.
The bath water swished as John stood up, rivulets trickling down his body. His skin was smooth and olive-tinted, unblemished by war wounds. Although stocky, he carried not an ounce of surplus flesh, and his limbs were perfectly in proportion. Whilst he lacked height, nature had been generous with other parts of his anatomy. After one swift glance, Monday lowered her eyes, her colour still high. There was a fluttering, nervous sensation in the pit of her belly. Anticipation, tension. Naked from his bath, Prince John was flirting with her, and she was aiding and abetting him.
A servant came forward with warm linen towels, and squires appeared to dress their lord. Monday gave the repaired tunic to one of them and watched the youth slip it over his lord’s head. John’s dark colouring took on a new glamour from the deep ruby tone of the silk. There was a rumour that the Angevin princes were descended from the devil, and looking at him, Monday could easily imagine how that rumour had come about.
As he slipped rings upon his fingers and one of the squires knelt to buckle the jewelled belt, Monday went unobtrusively into the antechamber and took a deep breath of air that was not scented by the herbal aroma of bath steam.
John had no particular love for tourneying. The military prowess of its heroes reminded him too much of his exalted brother, Richard, who was such a genius with the strategy of the sword that he made those less gifted seem like bumbling fools. Another brother, Geoffrey, had paid his life trying to emulate Richard’s prowess with sword and lance. But whatever his private thoughts, John also knew that men loved the hurly-burly of the tourneys, and they were excellent events for recruiting soldiers and garnering funds. And so, bathed and refreshed, he made an observer’s sally on to the field with his host.
It did not take him long to select the men he required, but then he had not intended it to. A recruiting officer was dispatched to make offers, and John retired to a trestle set up beneath the spreading branches of two lime trees. A cloth covered the board and goblets of Italian glass cast pools of gemstone light on the bleached linen. A matching flagon sparkled, as did an aquamanile in the shape of a lion with eyes of green malachite.
John had a love of luxury and beautiful things. Whereas Richard cared little if the cup he drank from was made of cracked clay, John cared very much, and was pleased that his host and hostess had gone to the trouble. Hamon was first and foremost Richard’s man, but he was also a lover of fine objects, and possessed a shrewd political eye.
Food was served in the dappled shade, the tree branches swishing gently overhead. Although John had arrived at Lavoux unannounced, Aline and her cooks had managed to produce a feast sufficient to delight the royal appetite. There were pigeons simmered in a wine and shallot sauce, small cheese pasties, bream with almonds, sweet and savoury custards, preserved fruits, spiced wafers, and as well as the best wine and mead from the stores, there was also a tawny pear cider, and sweet, strong morap, made from mulberry juice.